by Leo Hunt
Turning back toward the school, I can see the fog has reached the buildings, lapping against the walls and doors like a rising tide. The air around us is becoming milky, translucent. It’s so cold.
“Isn’t that where the Devil’s Footsteps are?” Elza asks me, pointing to where the light is erupting from.
“Yes,” I say.
I think we were there. . . . Something happened, but what? I can’t remember. All I remember is the sky, shimmering green light . . . shadows and stars. Something like a dream, a heap of broken images.
“I can taste magic,” Elza says. “Big magic. Can’t you?”
“My ears are ringing,” I say.
“We should get far away from here,” Elza says. “I think we should get indoors. Shelter.”
I don’t argue. Apart from anything, I’m going to freeze to death if we stand here any longer. My jaw pulses like it’s full of magma. I almost want to scream. You get to thinking that discomfort means not being able to reach the TV remote without standing up. Discomfort actually turns out to mean coatless in January with a red-hot needle of pain stuck into your gums.
We run, mist swirling around us, bracelets jangling on Elza’s wrist. Is this something to do with Berkley? I remember the tarot cards as Margaux turned them over, remember the Devil’s grinning face in the blackness. I remember the Magician card, an infinity sign emblazoned above his head. This is my fault somehow, I’m sure of it.
Last time we ran down this bank, we were chasing Alice Waltham, with my dad’s demon controlling her body. The time before that, we were climbing up it, with Ham in tow, hoping to sacrifice a gerbil to the Devil. It’s strange to look back on that night as the good old days.
For no reason, I think of the dead swan, blood in the frost by its white head.
Wait, is that a different swan?
I’m thinking of one lying on moss, not on the road. I’m picturing a different dead swan.
When?
Something happened and it keeps jumping out of reach.
Did I already pay the Devil? Is this what I paid him?
What was it that I gave?
The soccer field’s underfoot now, the ground firmer and more even. I’m still cold, but running’s building up heat in my chest. There’s light dancing overhead, strange lightning bolts of green and blue, but they don’t flash like lightning normally does, instead crawling across the sky at a lazy pace, almost like vines growing. I can’t see any stars. The mist is slowly thickening, condensing.
We arrive on the playground itself with a suddenness that startles me. Elza’s boots are clacking against concrete. The buildings of the school are just vague shapes, the world a haze.
I hear a noise behind us and grab at Elza’s wrist. She startles, but I pull her down, behind the low wall that runs along the side of the science block. We’re crouching in some shrubs, and for a moment I feel stupid, but then I hear some heavy clopping tread on the concrete school yard and a metallic jangling sound, like chains scraping against each other. It sounds like horses approaching, maybe chained to a cart or pack.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper.
Elza nods.
We’re low to the ground, peering over the wall. I can definitely hear hoofbeats, some large animal moving very close to us. The playground is thick with gray fog now, billowing lifeless clouds. A silent flash of green light illuminates the yard for a moment, and I jump.
There’s a pair of riders making their way across the school yard. I see humanoid shapes astride large, powerful-looking horses. I can’t see the riders clearly, but it looks like they’re wearing masks, oversize bird heads like plague doctors from medieval times. This is frightening, of course, but that’s not the thing that scares me most.
I only get a single glance in the green-lit mist before the light fades, but the horses seem to have human heads.
We stay hidden for as long as I can bear the cold, the mist shimmering with blue and green glare from the sky overhead. The riders have vanished and don’t seem to have been aware we were watching them. It looked as if they were heading for the center of Dunbarrow. I wonder why they were here, how they connect with everything that’s been happening tonight. They must’ve come from the other side of the gateway, Deadside; that’s the only place you’d get horses with the heads of men.
There’s no more sounds in the fog; no wind, no voices, nothing at all. It feels like being underwater, the bottom of a freezing toxic ocean. My jaw still hurts, like I’ve got a wisdom tooth coming through. Elza’s hand is clamped to mine, and we lie as close as we can to each other, shivering beneath a bush.
“We need to get indoors,” she whispers. “You’ll die of cold if we don’t.”
“Yeah,” I say. I’m shivering like a struck glass.
“What were those things?” Elza says to herself. “Were they after us?”
“I’ve seen —” I shudder, almost biting my tongue. “I’ve seen things like that before. Deadside. Black horses with human faces. They’re spirits.”
“They came from the Devil’s Footsteps,” she says.
“I think something came through. From the other side. Something bad. And we can’t remember what. Or why.”
“We need to move,” Elza says. “We have to keep going. Get somewhere safe. Then we can figure out what’s going on.”
“Where?”
“My house is closer to the school,” Elza replies. “We should go there first. Get warm, get off the streets. Before those riders, whatever they are, come back.”
Another surge of blue light in the sky above us.
“I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,” I say. “What happened to Mum and Darren and Margaux? Where did they go? Last I saw, Mum was heading away from Darren’s place. He said he’d go and get her, then —”
She squeezes my hand harder.
“One thing at a time,” Elza whispers. “We can find them. I know it. But first let’s get up to Towen Crescent. It’s not far.”
We stand and move, jogging through the mist, hoping not to run slap-bang into the horse creatures or their riders in the dimness. If anything it seems colder now, the flashes of light in the sky less frequent. There’s no electric light anywhere to be seen, and our phones are dead, their touch screens mute black rectangles. Even my digital watch has stopped, at exactly midnight. Whatever happened, it must’ve been the exact moment the old year became the new. I still don’t know as much as I ought to about magic, but I know days and times are significant. Halloween is one moment when the boundaries between Liveside and Deadside are weak, but there must be other times as well. Is the gap between the years one of them? What about the swans we saw this morning? The comet? It all must mean something.
We cross the staff parking lot, go down and out toward the school gates. They’re locked and we have to climb over them, the cold metal biting into my hands. The road outside is deserted. None of the street lamps are on, and there are no lights in any windows. There’s just milky mist and silence.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” Elza whispers back. “Maybe it’s the Rapture.”
I’m not sure if she’s joking.
It’s amazing how different this street looks. I walked up and down it twice a day for the entire time I came to school here in Dunbarrow. It was this exact street where I spoke to Elza the first time, more than a year ago. Visibility is only a few feet in front of us. I can’t see the spire of St. Jude’s or the clock tower by Dunbarrow Square or any of the normal landmarks.
Another surge of green light in the sky, turning everything around us gauzy emerald for a brief moment. Elza stops me.
“Did you see that?” she asks.
“See what?”
“There was someone ahead of us.”
I can’t see anyone. I can see maybe two cars in front of us. I think we’re coming up to the junction by the pub, with the bus station right ahead of us, but I have no idea. Was it just another person? Was it som
ething from Deadside?
“Well, let’s take it carefully,” I say.
We move forward. There’s a man standing with his back to us in the street. He’s just a silhouette in the fog. I can’t see what he’s doing. Our best bet might just be to walk quietly past. I don’t feel good about it, but I don’t know what else to do.
We press ourselves against the farthest fence, inching our way past the figure. My heart’s going like a drum. The man seems to have his hands over his face, but I can’t really tell. My teeth are yammering with pain, clicking together as my jaw chatters. We need to get inside. I really will die if we stay out here much longer. The sky and mist light up blue, but not the hearty blue of a summer sky; the fog turns unearthly pale blue, the color of a swimming pool lit with submerged lights at night. In the same moment as that flash, the man looks up and sees us.
“Luke? Elza?”
I recognize the voice, but I can’t place it.
“Yeah?” I say, my voice squeaking. Elza’s hand is gripping my elbow, trying to pull me away. She wants to run.
“Hey. It’s good to see you guys. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Who is that?” Elza asks.
“It’s . . .” The figure takes a shuddering breath. “Can you feel that?”
“Feel what?” I ask.
“It’s here,” he says, moving toward us. “It’s finally here. It’s . . . oh, man.”
I think I recognize his posture as he moves.
“Andy?” I ask.
Andy’s one of the town ghosts, part of a group of lads who died and hang around Dunbarrow, not wanting to move on into Deadside. He’s a pretty decent guy. He doesn’t usually talk like this. He sounds drunk, but I don’t see how that’s possible. Blue light flickers in the sky again. He takes another step toward us.
It definitely is Andy. He’s wearing his normal jeans, polo shirt, white sneakers.
“Can you feel it?” he asks us again.
“Feel what?” I reply. “Are you all right, mate?”
“Fine,” he says, laughing. “I feel great. It’s great.”
He steps closer again, and I recoil.
His eyes are luminous, gently pulsing with the same greenish-blue light as the sky and mist. Andy’s head seems to be lit from the inside, like a lantern.
“Are you really . . . OK? You’re, uh, glowing,” I say, shielding Elza from the ghost, both of us slowly backing away from him.
“You really don’t feel it?” he asks. “It’s a special night. It’s calling everyone.”
“What is?” I ask him. This is not good.
He sighs deeply.
“I don’t know,” Andy says. “But it feels amazing.”
“All right, man,” I say, slowly backing away, “good to hear. We’re just heading back home. Give us a shout tomorrow, yeah?”
“There’s not going to be a tomorrow,” Andy says happily. “This is all there is.”
“All right,” I say, our backing away becoming faster and faster, “good to know. Take care of yourself, mate. Have a good one.”
We both turn and bolt at the same time, running full tilt along the road, breath steaming in our mouths, Elza’s boots racketing on the road. We take a hard right, hurtling down the road, parked cars like sleeping animals in the fog. I can hear Andy shouting something after us, but I can’t make it out. He doesn’t follow us. After a few minutes of running, I get scared of what might be in front of us and slow down, panting.
“No tomorrow . . .” Elza gasps. “What is he talking about? Why are his eyes glowing like that? It’s like something was taking him over . . .”
The fog flickers green again, a sickly jade. I can hear something faintly, like people talking in a faraway room, coming from where I think the center of Dunbarrow might be.
“He seemed totally out of it,” I say. “Do you think something happened to the town ghosts?”
“Maybe,” Elza says. “His eyes were like the light up in the sky. Is something spreading through that light?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “We’ll keep walking, OK? We’ll get to your house. It’s not far.”
Something comes drifting down in front of my nose, pale and out of focus, and settles on the road in front of me. It’s a snowflake. A big, fat snowflake, like something from a Christmas card. Another comes spiraling down to join it. You have to be joking.
“Is that . . .” Elza begins.
“Yeah,” I say. “As if the weather wasn’t strange enough.”
“Snow in winter isn’t that strange,” Elza says.
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
We keep walking, uphill now. The flakes quickly turn into a genuine storm, thickening the foggy air even further. Elza’s hair is heavy with them, tiny hair ornaments. I’m shivering like crazy, hitting my forearms and chest with my hands to try and whack some warmth back into my body. My teeth are chattering, which makes my gums start aching again.
I hear a crunch behind me and turn around to see Elza kicking the back window out of a car.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a parka in here,” she says. “Backseat.”
The car window gives out after another blow from her combat boot, shattering into glittering squares of glass that are quickly lost in the blizzard. Elza reaches in and pulls out a parka with a fur-lined hood. She thrusts it at me.
“Put this on. You’re going to die otherwise.”
I take the jacket, heavy, with a weird smell to it, musty beer and cigarettes. I put it on. It’s too big for me, with sleeves that cover my entire hands, but given how cold I am, that doesn’t seem like a bad thing. I zip the coat all the way up and pull the hood over my head. I’m still shivering but at least the wind isn’t slipping in between my ribs like a dagger anymore.
“Sorry,” Elza says, “I should’ve thought of that way earlier.”
“Nah,” I say. “My fault. I didn’t say anything.”
“Next time you’re about to freeze to death,” Elza says, “do mention it, all right? Now let’s get moving. I’m still worried about you.”
She kisses me, a precious touch of warmth in the cold, and we forge on into the storm.
We’re nearly at Towen Crescent, just at the turnoff from the main road, when we hear voices out in the fog. The snow is still pelting down, the ground blanketed in white, all sounds muffled and strange. Walking uphill in the parka has warmed me up, although my fingers and toes still feel numb and frozen. My sneakers are soaking wet now, coated with fresh snow.
The voices are muffled and distant, but they sound human at least. We still haven’t seen another person, an electric light, or a moving car anywhere in Dunbarrow. Since we were in the woods, I haven’t even seen any animals besides the horse creatures.
“Do you hear that?” I ask.
“Hear what?”
“There’s someone coming,” I say.
Without another word, we duck behind a parked car.
The voices are nearer, although I still can’t make them out properly. There’s some strange sound, too, like metallic clanking, the same noise we heard back in the school yard. Is it those riders again? We’re so close to Towen Crescent, Elza’s house. Maybe we should just run up there.
My gums still hurt; less intensely now, but it’s a sour ache, more noticeable now that we just have to crouch here and wait.
Then the owners of the voices appear out of the mist and I forget all about my teeth.
They’re two hulking creatures, dim forms in the dimness, and they stalk down the road in tandem, bickering with each other. Their bodies are horse-shaped, but their heads and voices are definitely human. This must be the same pair of monsters we saw by the high school. Where are their riders? Elza’s warm hand grasps mine, and we crouch behind the car, barely daring to breathe.
“— to take only the unmarked,” one’s saying, “that is what she tells us. I did never hear the like, Dumachus, I surely did not. This be lunacy. We are promised a
feast, and then told only the scraps are to be had. It is a feast of nothingness, Dumachus, that is what it is. A feast of lies.”
“That it be,” the other horse-man replies. I think they’re men; their voices sound male at least. There’s a rhythmic metallic clanking noise as they walk.
“Years she holds us to wait, and for what? To bear them on our backs, as though we were common mules, Dumachus, mules, and then to wander in the cold, bereft of sport and food, to wander this township searching for those wayward few she has not marked, like we were mongrel hunting hounds. I wish to eat, Dumachus, my old friend, I am sorely tested. My stomach sings for a meal. It has been so long since we have supped together.”
“That it has,” the other monster says.
They’re closer now. Another green flash illuminates the road, and I see these creatures clearly. They have the bodies of cart horses and the heads of old, long-haired men. These horse-men are much like the horrible herd I saw drinking by the banks of the Cocytus, but larger and stronger-looking, and clad in dull battered armor, war gear made for horses. This is the source of the metallic noise: plates of steel moving against one another as the monsters walk. I wonder who armored them; without hands, they certainly couldn’t have strapped the plates onto their bodies themselves. Perhaps it was the riders that we saw.
The horse monsters are close enough now that I can make out the details of their faces; pinched and cruel-looking, with tangled manes of gray hair. Their heads are proportional to the size of their bodies, and they’re much larger than any human’s, powerful and thick-necked. One of the creatures has a stringy mustache drooping from his upper lip; it’s this spirit that does most of the talking.
“Hold ho!” this talkative one says suddenly. “Hold ho, Dumachus!”
